


A Little This, A Little That

by grandsequel (Yunho)



Category: Infinite (Band), K-pop
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-03
Updated: 2013-06-03
Packaged: 2017-12-13 20:19:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/828444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yunho/pseuds/grandsequel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Myungsoo isn't just a cook and Dongwoo isn't just a writer (because he's also kind of a creep, according to Myungsoo at least). To each other, they are both so much more.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Little This, A Little That

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I own nothing herein.
> 
> Written 2011 for infinitesanta for sungyeol (Livejournal)

No one ever told Dongwoo it was impossible to make it as a writer or that he can’t write, so him trying to make a living as a writer would be nigh on impossible. Which is a lie, actually, because  _everyone_  told him he could never make it as a writer (and that he sucks at writing) and he was just too stubborn for his own good to listen. So now he’s living a very tragic, very cliché life desperately attempting to scrape by on commissions and authoring childrens’ books which children could never actually read (or understand) and making pennies doing something he hates when he’s trying to make millions doing something else entirely.  
  
Life sucks like that.  
  


« • »

  
  
It’s not technically fast food, that’s the thing to keep in mind. Because fast food, as the name implies, means food arriving quickly, but Myungsoo can say in all honesty that the food they deliver at Wang’s Eastern Palace Dining is  _definitely_  not delivered ‘fast.’ Or well, to be honest, but he’s technically not allowed to say anything about that.  
  
So yeah. Myungsoo doesn’t work at a fast food joint. But he does work at Wang’s Eastern Palace Dining and it sucks, that part is true.  
  
He wonders some days why he ever thought it was a good idea to apply for a job at a place that smells like fried fish and stale bread all day. He doesn’t go home smelling delicious, that’s for sure. Now and again he wonders why he ever let himself get so desperate that he  _had_  to apply for a job at a place that smells like fried fish and stale bread all day. They don’t even sell bread in the restaurant.  
  
There are a million other things he could be doing. Like walking around aimlessly taking pictures. He likes taking pictures. Pictures of people; animals; scenery. Those things don’t bitch at him when he fries the fish too long or when he forgets to remove the tea bag from the tea cup. Birds don’t peck at him when he mistakenly gives the non-Asian friend a fork instead of chopsticks (though that only happened once, considering they don’t get very many foreign customers—well, they don’t get many customers period).  
  
All things considered, Myungsoo is a good worker. Calm, quiet, and does his thing with little fuss. He’s a  _really_  good employee, actually. That he’s stuck working at a fast food joint sucks, yeah, but some guys just get the short stick in life.  
  
Yup. Life sucks like that.  
  


« • »

  
  
It really isn’t Dongwoo’s fault he hasn’t eaten in two days. Starving children in Africa have to go days without eating, right? And those weird black-lipped kids with the pins and beads and hoops stuck through their skin stay inside and play World of Warcraft for several days straight without eating, right? Dongwoo isn’t a kid in Africa nor is he some weird ass looking punk playing video games in his room all day and night, but he  _is_  a starving artist and he  _has_  been holed up in his room with his crappy laptop trying to start some semblance of an amazing novel—and that is why he hasn’t eaten anything in two days. It has nothing to do with the fact that he’s down to his last few bills and too proud (and stubborn) to call his parents for the money to eat. That’s a new low even for him, he realizes.  
  
Maybe he should consider different employment but he’s got no other marketable skills—aside from dancing, which is just as useless as not being able to write. At least he can bullshit writing well enough to pen some shitty childrens’ books.  
  
Wang’s Eastern Palace Dining is one of those places you go to and get exactly what you paid for. Practically pennies for a plate of food and a fountain drink. The soda is always flat and the food, while hot…well, that’s all it is really. The cook tries, Dongwoo’s willing to give him (or her) the benefit of the doubt on that, but beyond that…  
  
It only costs him five of his eight bills in his pocket to get a combo meal there. He grabs a seat in the corner by the window where the hum of the air conditioner whirrs on endlessly in a monotonous drone above his head. It’s a bit like when he’s writing actually—with a drone of words in his mind that’s just an indistinguishable buzz.   
  
They always tell him the food will be out in ten minutes but ten minutes always ends up being more like twenty. He wonders what the cook is doing in the back. Surely it doesn’t take him  _that_  long to read the order and throw some food on the pan to heat up, right?  
  
Tapping his fingers gently along the edge of the table, Dongwoo makes an actual effort to curb his impatience. It isn’t like he has anywhere else to be and there’s no insane bout of inspiration that’s suddenly struck him to make him want to leave and finish (or in his case, start) writing that novel of his. Damn if he isn’t in a royal pain in the ass lifetime of stagnancy and unending writers’ block.   
  
His eyes eventually glaze over, unblinking and unseeing in a form of half-conscious sleep. Of course that’s when the waiter drops his plate of food on the table with an irritatingly intrusive  _thump_  and pokes his shoulder with the end of a pair of chopsticks to wake him up. Dongwoo resists the urge to snap at the old man, remembering that his mother raised him better than that, and instead gives him a prompt half-assed bow of the head before turning to his food.  
  
Either it’s actually been that long since Dongwoo last ate or the cook truly outdid himself, because the dish sitting before Dongwoo is a masterpiece. And the glazed look reappears on his face just before he digs into the food.  
  


« • »

  
  
Myungsoo’s a simple guy really. Which is pretty evident in the way he’s never really aspired to be much in his life. The most he’s ever wanted is to go out and take pictures, and even that doesn’t happen much because he’s stuck frying rice and boiling soup in the back kitchen of a rundown, grade-B fast food restaurant six days a week for a salary that pays nickels for hours of blood, sweat, and tears—quite literally, some days. But he doesn’t complain. Money is money—even if the amount isn’t enough to do anything more than survive off of.   
  
The amount of money he makes isn’t much, sure, but there are other perks of his job that are priceless. Not many, mind you, but there are some.  
  
One perk that always comes to mind first is Mr. Tousled-Hair-with-the-Big-Teeth. Alright, Myungsoo doesn’t actually know his name but he does know that the guy always comes in with his hair looking like it had a vicious fight with the blow dryer (and lost) and his teeth looking like they got into a heated squabble with the dentist (and won). The restaurant doesn’t get many regulars to begin with, so the few that they do have, Myungsoo knows as much about them as can be known about someone who comes into a restaurant occasionally and orders off the menu.   
  
Myungsoo recognizes the guy sitting there in the corner by himself. He wants to say he recognizes the look on his face but he doesn’t, at least he doesn’t think he does, because he’s never seen someone’s face light up at the sight of his food. Which is sad for two reasons—because it’s more than a little depressing that his food can’t cheer anyone up when it’s a known fact that food is the universal spirit lifter  _and_  because it’s quite sad that Myungsoo’s so bored at the moment he’s taken to watching those in the restaurant as they eat. Watching people eat is about as interesting as watching paint dry—which is something Myungsoo has found himself doing on more than one occasion, unfortunately.  
  
If only Myungsoo knew his name. But there’s just no way for him to ever learn it. Mr. Tousled-Hair-with-the-Big-Teeth will always remain just that. The guy with tousled hair and big teeth.  
  


« • »

  
  
Everything is good, though maybe just a little on the spicy side (and Dongwoo had asked for mild spice).  
  


« • »

  
  
He’s leaving the restaurant now. Myungsoo watches him grab the door handle and try to pull before remembering he has to push.   
  


« • »

  
  
When Dongwoo gets home he sits down on the couch with his laptop on his lap and stares at the open—blank—word document for a few minutes before starting.  
  


> _Everything had been measured and divided long before the moment of reckoning. It began with the chopping of the carrots and ended with a pinch salt. Though the fingers doing the pinching were strong and thick and the pinch became a tad too large._

  
  


« • »

  
  
Myungsoo finishes his shift at 11 that night. The moment he returns home he flings his apron, balled up in his hand, over the back of one of his kitchen chairs and goes to the kitchen sink to attempt washing out the smell of grease, fried fish, and stale bread from his hands. Only when he’s satisfied that his fingers smell fresh and like the Japanese Cherry Blossom hand soap he’d used does Myungsoo finally dry his hands and make his way tiredly to his bedroom.  
  
Spying his camera sitting lonely and unused on his dresser, he switches on his bedside lamp to add to the light already on in his room and snatches up his camera, taking it with him as he drops down on his bed. He turns it on and points the camera to random places in his room, capturing picture after boring picture of his dirty socks and work uniform and messy floor.   
  


« • »

  
  
It’s the second day in a row that Mr. Tousled-Hair-with-the-Big-Teeth has come to eat in the restaurant. Myungsoo doesn’t think it’s even a little weird that he’s noticed. He gets the same thing as yesterday and this time Myungsoo tries harder not to put too much spice in the curry because he may have  _accidentally_  added a little too much the day before.  
  


« • »

  
  
It’s the second day in a row that Dongwoo goes to eat at Wang’s Eastern Palace Dining and it’s kinda sad to think but it’ll probably be the last time he goes there for some time because he really has no money left. That means tonight he’ll be going to his parents’ place and asking to borrow a bit more money (which he can’t waste at Wang’s because he’s going to use it to pay his bills. Definitely).   
  
At least the food isn’t as spicy as it was yesterday.  
  


« • »

  
  
Mr. Tousled-Hair-with-the-Big-Teeth doesn’t come back the next day. Myungsoo doesn’t care of course—  
  


« • »

  
  
As expected, Dongwoo doesn’t go to Wang’s again the next day—  
  


« • »

  
  
He’s back again the day after.  
  


« • »

  
  
“You really like my food?”  
  
Myungsoo can’t be expected to hold his tongue for too long. Especially not when Mr. Tousled-Hair-with-the-Big-Teeth ends up coming to eat lunch at the restaurant for almost a week straight. Myungsoo’s curious, that’s all.  
  
He slides into the seat across from Mr. Tousled-Hair-with-the-Big-Teeth and tries not to look too obvious when he smiles. He’s been told his smile is a little disarming.   
  
“Huh?”  
  
“I’m Myungsoo. The cook. I work in the back,” he answers shortly.  
  
“Oh.”  
  
They both nod their heads slowly to show they’re able to keep up with the highly profound conversation.  
  
“Well I’m Dongwoo,” Mr. Tousled-Hair-with-the-Big-Teeth finally reveals. Myungsoo repeats the name in his head a few times, rolling it around and letting his tongue silently play with it in his mouth before he leans back in his seat and folds his hands over his lap. “Dongwoo,” he repeats aloud.  
  
“Yup.”  
  
“You like my cooking?”  
  
“Uh.” It’s the universal stutter for  _Give me a moment as I think of a polite way of saying I hate your cooking_.  
  
“It’s alright if you don’t. I was just curious. You’ve been here every day this week.”  
  
“I skipped Wednesday,” Dongwoo awkwardly blurts. Myungsoo can’t resist quirking a brow at the statement. “Didn’t have enough money,” Dongwoo explains lamely.  
  
“We have the cheapest food on the block…?”  
  
“I have…the emptiest wallet on the block.”  
  
“Oh.” It’s all Myungsoo knows to respond with. Dongwoo clearly wants to finish eating his food because he keeps glancing at the plate in front of him longingly before quickly snapping his gaze back to Myungsoo’s face. Myungsoo, not wanting to be any more cruel, gives him one last small smile and stands. “Tell whoever’s at the front your meal’s on me.”   
  
He’s walking back towards the kitchen when Dongwoo calls out to him.  
  
“Yeah?” he asks, turning around.  
  
“You said your name is Myungsoo?” He nods. “Thanks.”  
  
“Don’t mention it,” Myungsoo replies.  
  


« • »

  
  
Dongwoo doesn’t blame Myungsoo’s look of shock later that night when he shows up outside the restaurant. It’s nearly midnight.  
  
“You’re still here?” Dongwoo buries his hands in his pockets and shrugs, following next to Myungsoo as they walk down the sidewalk. “I waited for you.”  
  
“ _Why_?” Myungsoo sounds just a little nervous and Dongwoo suddenly realizes that this is probably a little weird.  
  
“I’m not stalking you!” he splutters. “I swear! I’m a writer—not a stalker—”  
  
“Right—”  
  
“I came ’cause, well, you know. I thought, maybe…”  
  
“Maybe…?”  
  
“You’d like the company walking home?   
  
Both are silent for a minute before Myungsoo finally confesses, “You’re creeping me out.”  
  
Dongwoo gives a self deprecating laugh. “Yeah, I get that a lot.”  
  


« • »

  
  
Myungsoo can’t help but notice that it’s been two days since Dongwoo showed up at the restaurant and walked him home. It’s not like he expects Dongwoo to come again but it feels a little inconsiderate of him to walk Myungsoo home once and then not show up again.   
  
Even Myungsoo realizes how pathetic he is.  
  


« • »

  
  
It takes a week for Dongwoo to muster up the courage—or the stupidity—to go back to Wang’s. He tries not to act too hurt when Myungsoo resolutely ignores him that night when he comes out and sees Dongwoo waiting for him.   
  
“Hi,” Dongwoo tries.  
  
Myungsoo just walks away.  
  
“Wait! Look,” Dongwoo jobs to catch up with Myungsoo, then slows his pace to fall in step with him, “I know I should’ve come back sooner but I—”  
  
“Do I know you?”  
  
Of all the responses Dongwoo had expected, that certainly isn’t one of them. “Huh?”  
  
“Sorry. I don’t think I know you. And I don’t talk to strangers.”  
  
“Myungsoo—come on, don’t be like that! I had a good reason for not coming sooner!” Myungsoo continues to ignore him though and just keeps walking. For one second Dongwoo considers just giving up and letting Myungsoo continue to be stubborn and difficult. He even stops in the middle of the sidewalk and watches Myungsoo walk away.  
  
“I wrote a book about you!” he suddenly shouts. That gets Myungsoo’s attention.  
  
He stops too and spins around. He’s just far enough away that Dongwoo can’t make out the look on his face—but he guesses it’s probably one of disbelief.  
  
“ _What_?!”   
  
Dongwoo closes the distance between them, shrugging as nonchalantly as he can pull off when he’s close enough to see Myungsoo’s eyes narrow in confusion. “I’m a writer,” he offers, as though that explains everything.  
  
“So you said.”  
  
“You remember that but not my name?” Dongwoo asks, just to be difficult. Myungsoo rolls his eyes but doesn’t reply. “I’ve been working on a book. And I…well I kinda almost finished it this week.” He can’t resist rubbing the back of his neck, a gesture that exposes his sudden nervousness to be revealing all this to—dare he say it—his muse.  
  
“You wrote a book about me?” Dongwoo nods. “Why?”  
  
“I…Well it’s not really about  _you_ , to be honest but it’s—it’s inspired by you.”  
  
“ _I_  inspired you to write a book?” he asks skeptically.  
  
“Well yeah. That’s a little weird, isn’t it?”  
  
“Extremely. I’m just a cook.”  
  
“You’re more than just a cook.”  
  
“You don’t even know me. At least not well enough to say something like that.”  
  
“I don’t need to know you.  _No one_  is ‘just’ anything.”  
  
“You’re not just a writer?”  
  
“Course not.”  
  
Myungsoo suddenly cracks a grin, rigid stance finally relaxing. “Well, I guess you’re also a creep.” It takes a moment for Dongwoo to decide whether to laugh or scowl, before he settles on the former. “Thanks,” he says, more than a tinge of sarcasm present.  
  
“Anytime.”  
  
“Can I walk you home?”  
  
Myungsoo glances behind him, as though there’s something—or someone—there he has to get permission from before giving his answer. He bites his lip in consideration before finally tentatively nodding his head. “Sure. But you have to tell me what you wrote about. I wanna know what kind of story I inspired you to write.”  
  
Dongwoo grins and claps the taller man on the shoulder. “Sure Mr. Cook. Well it starts with an intro of the cook adding  _way_ too much salt into whatever dish he's making because well, let’s face it,” he begins to drag Myungsoo down the sidewalk with him, going in the direction of Myungsoo’s apartment, and takes Myungsoo’s hand in his, holding it up and spreading the fingers apart widely, “the cook’s hands are really calloused and thick—”  
  
“Are you saying I have fat fingers?” Myungsoo interrupts indignantly. He pulls away from Dongwoo’s embrace but let’s their shoulders continue to bump together as they walk.  
  
“Fat? Course not. I’m just saying your fingers are calloused…and thick.”  
  
Dongwoo expects another heated reply but instead Myungsoo suddenly stops, pulling Dongwoo back by wrapping his hand around his elbow. “Hey wait—”  
  
“Yeah?”  
  
“…Seriously—What’s your name again?”  
  
Dongwoo waits until Myungsoo’s face slowly cracks into an amused grin before good-naturedly shoving him over. “Jerk!”  
  
“Aw come on, it was funny! Your face was priceless—”  
  
“Jerk,” Dongwoo repeats. He folds his hands behind his head and continues on his way towards Myungsoo’s apartment. He startles a moment when Myungsoo gently slides an arm around his shoulders, but soon enough relaxes again.  
  
“You’ll get used to it.”  
  
“Used to what?”  
  
“My…” He slows down, leaving Dongwoo no choice but to slow down as well, since Myungsoo’s arm is still around his shoulders.  
  
“Your…?”  
  
“My…devious side,” he whispers, pressing his lips against Dongwoo’s ear. Dongwoo shudders violently and goes to shove Myungsoo away again but before he can, the taller man has already taken off, laughing loudly as he looks over his shoulder once before sprinting away.  
  
“ _Jerk!_ ” Dongwoo shouts after him for the third time that night. He shakes his head before giving chase, knowing it’ll definitely be worth his effort to catch the young cook.

**END**


End file.
